ROSE’S BENT STEM: Girl Tangled. 'Best thriller of 2019,' -The Tribune

by NOMITA KHANNA

  get you in the sack. Besides, you’ve known him for like five seconds,” she cackles.

  “No, I’ve known him for almost a year now,” I defend

  my decision, “and he insists he’s found the love of his life in

  me.” BFF’s jealous, I thought.

  “He’s too old for you.” She sure is determined to use

  every arrow in her quiver. “Smokes like a chimney too—who knows how far the lung-busters have damaged his innards… the chances of you riding into the sunset with him are kind of

  bleak, don’t you think? All things considered …”

  I choose to ignore each word she spews out in order not to

  dignify any. “He makes me laugh. I did read somewhere and I

  quote, `The ability to laugh together is the essence of love. `”

  “Even a bristly burr in your sock can do the tickle job—” She shakes her head at me like an exasperated parent with a

  recalcitrant child.

  “Stop it Pri. I’m falling in love.”

  “As you please.” She raises her palms. And then she asks

  suddenly as if she’s just remembered to do so, and as if this was an entirely new topic, “What did he get you for your

  birthday?”

  Sneaky BFF. She knows. “Um … er … he says it’s all

  mine—his wealth. He doesn’t need to buy me things. Anyway,

  I have enough.”

  Pri then slowly and deliberately surveys my life’s

  belongings that lay scattered all around our drab room. “Show

  me your stone ring again,” she drawls.

  Snatching a quick look at the faded piece of jewellery, I

  say, “It’s an incredible piece of history. It’d be a shame to

  alter it.”

  “Incredible! Hey Tana, you told me they don’t believe in

  keeping too much staff. What if they want you to cook and

  clean?” she keeps at her grilling.

  “That’s not the worst thing to happen to a girl. Anyway, he

  knows I am a working woman. The staff thing isn’t set in

  stone. I’ll hire more,” I say. Though, my entire life I haven’t

  hired anyone—not even a cat to kill the rat in our room, let

  alone a human being.

  My point is that things change. People grow and learn.

  So, I can’t wait to marry him. I will be in a position to hire and fire. And it’s about time that I get out of this hovel I call home.

  Once she knew I had no plan to change my opinion, Priyanka swings an abrupt U-turn. Flinging herself joyously at me, the scrounger says, “Oh, Tana, I’m so, so happy for you. Touchwood.”

  Squirming out of her cloying grasp I say, “Let’s not do

  that.”

  “I could be your bridesmaid, you know—”

  “Actually, I do not know.”

  “Does he have a brother, a cousin, anyone? I’ll get a kalichadi I suppose? He’s loaded, isn’t he? Maybe he will give me a solitaire. Weed and pot need to go though; only tea pots. Speaking of which, I can’t wait to sip tea in your English garden. I googled it: New York Times describes every plot in Lutyens Bungalow Zone as a real estate Rolex. I love, love the phera ceremony—there’s a certain romance attached to it. Do tell him to keep saffron infused almond milk on the menu. Oh my God Tana, maybe you’ll get to be a Sabyasachi bride, every Indian girl’s dream.” She then opens her mouth, closes it, opens it yet again to speak, “Maybe you can buy me a matching outfit. I can be your bridesmaid.” She says it as though we’re Christians and as if she’s a celebrity. “I can imagine me as the most divine bridesmaid on the face of this

  earth, holding up the edge of your red-net-embroidered

  lehenga—” drones the impulsive optimist.

  “It’s my wedding but please, go on. I can be Mrs. Santa Claus. Hindu wedding, you get a ring—Christian, an outfit. Do you want to find out what a bridesmaid gets in a Muslim wedding?” I ask her.

  Beyond happy, she rubs her lamp to wake up the genie.

  “Quick, Siri, what…”

  And I do what I do best: My perfect 10/10 eye-roll.

  Later, when I tell her that the wedding pheras will be at the bungalow, she jumps through hoops. “Finally, I am going to see LBZ and a rhubarb-red-sandstone clad Lutyens bungalow. Ooh, loggia encircled and set in an English garden.”

  “It’s not ‘Lootens’. It’s Lutchens.” I pull a face at her

  mispronunciation.

  “Who cares? Lutchens, Bachchans…” she laughs

  flippantly. “Mafia Bungalow Zone, most likely. Hey, Tana,

  maybe I’ll even get to stay there for the pre-celebrations, dance

  rehearsals etcetera.”

  “Oh, sure,” I tell her non-committally. Oh, sure, as soon

  as the three bears find Goldilocks, happens to be my true

  opinion about the matter.

  For days afterward, I am rather disgusted to say that Pri

  prances around my ankles, licking my boots in the hope of

  getting an invite for a sleepover at the bungalow.

  But, bearing in mind her brazen disregard for sensitivities

  and her irreverent attitude, I am not sorry my bestie cannot

  attend my wedding at the bungalow on the nineteenth of

  February. Understandably, Mr. Patel wants a low-key and small affair—only with the immediate family and therefore

  despite her excitement, I couldn’t put her on the guest list.

  Five

  TAJ PALACE. February, 2018

  TO HER UTTER DELIGHT THOUGH, Priyanka is attending the Reception, at the Mughal lawn Raja-Bagh in the Taj Palace. My mother also cannot stop smiling—well, at least until we strike up a conversation.

  “You can now lead a princess’ life. Those night-shifts have

  given you raccoon eyes. See for yourself, look in the mirror.

  Even the best make-up can’t hide it,” —she holds my jaw tilting it at an angle— “though I must say your skin’s a lot better. But your hair… who did it? Anyway, must say Mrs. Patel’s creams have done you good. Crazily priced, eh?”

  I take a step back to take partial shelter behind a waiter. This isn’t going well. My new family doesn’t need to hear this. Maybe she’ll stop talking if I keep my mouth shut—the very best policy to be followed around her.

  Someone beckons the waiter who moves away leaving me

  once again exposed to the heavy artillery.

  “It’ll do you good to follow in our footsteps. Now dump

  that Florence Nightingale job and take care of the home like

  we Purani Dilli ladies do. Like a proper housewife.”

  “Okay, I’ll bite. Keep going. Only do me one small favour.

  Don’t mention poor Mrs. Patel’s creams for a while. Can you

  do that? Plus, body-shaming is off-limits, too.”

  “To cut a long story short—”

  “If this is cutting short, I wonder what long is.”

  “In short, resign.”

  “C’mon Mummy, I’m not going to do that. Mr. Kumar

  needs me; he’s out of his aphasia but is still a paraplegic, really

  dependent on me. I can’t just ditch my responsibilities and act

  like a Queen.”

  “I don’t care about any of your paragraphs or diseases. It’s

  time you looked out for family. The way we Daryaganj

  homemakers do.”

  I found it irritating when Mummy couldn’t or wouldn’t say the right word. Paragraph! So, I chose not to respond.

  She, however, continues full steam ahead. “Ours’ is a full-time job of great consequence, and relevance.”

  “So, you think your job is more important than mine?” I break my silence, feeling compelled to challenge her.

  “Now don’t spin my words. Spare some time for exercise.”

  She looks me up a
nd down. “You do realize you’re going back to your old pear-shaped body, huh? I’m not going to be around forever,” blusters the ray of sunshine.

  “Don’t… talk like that,” I say somewhat listlessly. I know she wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon being sturdier and healthier than a racehorse. She just enjoys whinging, and donning a dismal demeanour. I believe she’s missed her calling—that of a professional mourner, what with her penchant for tragedy.

  We are still arguing quietly, though I would have loved to

  bicker in shriller tones, when Priyanka comes along. She holds

  Mummy’s hands. “Oh Auntie, no one, I bet no one can say

  you’re the bride’s mother. More like a bride yourself.”

  Dressed in a dull-pink brocade saree going well with her

  matte pink lipstick and a salmon-pink tourmaline pendant

  twinkling in the hollow of her collarbones, my slim mother

  indeed, looks pretty, though hardly the bride. I’ve yet to see a

  bespectacled bride.

  “It’s Tana’s day. Isn’t she—”

  I smooth the jewel-embossed appliqués on my lavender

  gown, and pat my intricately braided though somewhat tousled coiffure. Mummy, you’re barking up the wrong tree. Pri cannot pay me a compliment unless a gun’s pointed at her head.

  “Nice, I suppose.” Pri inspects me studiously, her eyes

  peeled like a bald-headed eagle.

  “It’s okay Pri,” I say lackadaisically, “you can be honest.”

  “Tied hair makes your face look longer. Auntie’s got this

  perfect oval one,” she concludes astutely. “And your hair’s poker straight—I’ve seen you torture it into curls with rollers, tongs, irons.” She touches a loose strand of hair on Mummy’s forehead. “Auntie’s curls—god-gifted!”

  And that’s the Priyanka I know, I think resignedly.

  “You’ve got beady eyes. Auntie’s are—” she continues her assiduous appraisal.

  “I didn’t ask for an essay, Pri,” I shrill.

  “You’re young, though,” Mummy consoles me as though I have lost in a beauty competition.

  “Don’t be modest, Auntie, you really look too young.”

  “Since her Papa left me I’m not really looking after

  myself; just his bonsais.”

  “Did you go for that free trial at Olympics?” I ask.

  “Good you asked. I went but what good is a gym if the trainers go around wearing hearing aids. There’s one who wears an ortho-back belt too besides the ear-aid. I’m better off without one of these sports injuries,” Mummy replies.

  “They’re not hearing aids, they’re Bluetooth earpieces.”

  “Really? Anyway, the point is I’m past my prime. It’s okay if I don’t care”—she pins Priyanka with her appealing eyes through her glasses— “but your friend can. Knock some sense into her … if you can convince her to resign … as it is I feel she’s in the wrong profession bearing in mind her fear of blood.”

  I pretended to look for something in my little Swarovski

  clutch thinking of a way to escape the two-member-gang’s

  relentless barrage, and pulled out a lipstick.

  “Auntie, I know your daughter. She will not be happy

  setting the menu and watching TV serials. She’s restless and a

  born rebel.”—she shrugged— “Hey, I think we need—”

  “What?” Mummy asks expectantly.

  “—tea. I’ll get it.” Remembering something else, she

  turns to ask, “Did they serve saffron-almond milk at the

  pheras? At Lutyens bungalow?”

  “Huh?” I drop the lipstick in the clutch and throw up my hands. “Enough said about the bungalow! As for the milk—”

  “Wait—” She slaps her ears shut. “I don’t want to know.

  Did you at least keep a bridesmaid ring for me?”

  Says the generous friend, who gifts me things nearest the cash register—keychains, nondescript mugs and the like, on every single birthday. Sadly, there is more—strangers get Body-Shop lotions from her. How many horrid brown mugs can I leave ‘accidentally’ in the auto-rickshaw?

  “Sure. My wedding gift first, please?” I hold out my palm.

  “Good one … I’m getting tea!” She flounces away rather

  haughtily.

  “She’s okay?” Mummy asks.

  My turn to shrug. “How do I know? Today, that’s the least

  of my priorities.”

  “Anyway, Tana, you could do well with—”

  “No, no, no.” I squirm uneasily.

  “How do you know what I’m going to say?”

  “Long and painful experience and—” I stop mid-sentence upon noticing my superior Dr. Varun Seth walking toward me with his wife, Mohini, a plastic surgeon.

  “Mother-daughter bonding?” He flicks back his wavy

  black hair, looking dapper in formals. He touches my bare

  shoulder sending a delicious thrill through my body.

  More-like-squabbling raucously. I laugh awkwardly, “We

  were just saying how much we will miss each other now

  that I’m married.”

  “You look ravishing,” Dr. Mohini smiles at me. “You could

  visit me for a hydra-facial or the red-laser one before your honeymoon maybe.”

  “Sure, Doc. I’ll look them up on your website.”

  Pulling out a brochure from her bag she adds, “I’ve got all

  the information right here. Only for you, twenty percent discount—an exclusive one-time-opportu—.”

  “Relax, Doc. You had me at ravishing.” Politely I take the leaflet and try to stuff it into my tiny clutch. “This is my mother.”

  “You’re beautiful too though I can make you even more beautiful. I can give you a jaw line,” Dr. Mohini tells Mummy.

  “Huh? I like to think I already have one.” Mummy touches

  her jaw, a confused expression crossing her face.

  “Fair enough. What I’m saying is I can make it sharper.”

  Feeling strangely pleased, I give my warmest smile to the

  good doctor.

  “What’s this I hear about your new plans? Nurse of the year should be the last one resigning. We can’t run the place without you,” says Dr. Seth.

  As the head of the department of the neuropsychiatry wing,

  this doctor is everything I wanted to be. I am envious to see the kind of admiration he commands; people gawk at him as though he were a rare microbe in a jar. And it didn’t hurt that this microbe happens to be a folksy-type, outgoing, people person, therefore much more comparable to good bacteria than any random one. It is a widely known but never acknowledged fact that he has slept with more nurses than anyone could imagine. Even so, his image remains untarnished in my mind. For me, doctors are God-Like.

  Lodged in my memory—which I fear might one day become poisonous like an embedded bullet—is the conversation when as a child I revealed my choice of career to my parents, “I want to be a doctor.”

  Papa had guffawed making his weak chin disappear

  altogether somewhere into the folds of his jaw. “And I want to

  be the Prime Minister,” he had regarded me in mocking mirthfulness, reigning supreme in the art of dehumanising.

  “You’re not me. You don’t have my kind of will—”

  “No, seriously, Papa.” I had turned towards Mummy. “Tell

  him.”

  “Um… er…” Mummy’s poor vocabulary dwindled

  radically to turn worse, when Papa turned preacher.

  “Last time I checked your IQ wasn’t exactly ceiling high.

  And Princess of Persia, where will you get the money for the

  medical fee?” Papa’s voice had been soaked in sarcasm.

  Well check again Papa. I’ll make you eat your words. At

  the time I remember thinking my words had a ring of prophecy
and also that I could be an adopted child.

  “What is 200 multiplied by 53?” he had asked as though

  doctors studied Mathematics.

  “Er … 10000 plus … um,” I had murmured, turning

  psoriasis-pink.

  “Go on … dazzle me,” he had smiled condescendingly though he hardly ever smiled otherwise.

  My face burned with shame. “Um…”

  “From flunking in Math, you want to try your hand at

  flunking in Biology now? Eh?”

  He does know docs study Biology. Stripped of respect, I

  writhed like mist scorched by the harsh sun, and wished to be lifted up and smeared away.

  “In my opinion, if you want to be in a hospital, you had best

  run the canteen in it,” he had said disdainfully, “put these foolish notions out of your head.”

  “But Papa,” I had somehow mustered the courage to plod

  on, “I’ve been thinking about this for as long as I can remember. I’m like obsessed … like-like it’s a disease, and—”

  “Perhaps the good doctor Tana Sharma who passes out at

  the sight of a drop of blood, can cure you of this disease.”

  My dear Papa, Teacher of Demoralizing, never lost a chance to whittle me down to the size of a pygmy with his snarky remarks usually leaving me bereft of any sense of dignity.

  “We will have this conversation later,” Mummy had

  whispered to me impersonally.

  Oh, she speaks. I knew better than to believe her. That

  ‘later’ would never come. Nothing short of a miracle that I’m a normal girl.

  “You’re the finest brain we have,” Dr. Varun’s husky voice

  pulls me out of the time machine, “we need you.”

  “See?” I say to Mummy.

  “What about the little ones? They’re excited about this

  family trip. When was the last time you took a day off? At

  least take some time out for the holiday,” Mummy can’t quit.

  “I really can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’ll be busy doing my ‘not-of-any-consequence’ job.

  Remember?” I say sulkily.

  “Dr. Seth?” She wills him to support her.

  “Mrs. Sharma’s right, Tana. We can manage a few days

  without you,” says Dr. Varun, somewhat reluctantly. “You’ll

  come back refreshed, firing on all cylinders,” he adds